She was in love with him.
She stayed like that, one hand stroking his hair, the other resting on his shoulder, feeling each breath deepen as he finally relaxed into sleep. His shivering subsided, replaced by the even rhythm of deep slumber.
Only when she was certain he was completely asleep, did she dare consider extricating herself.
Moving like someone defusing a bomb, she began the delicate process of freeing herself without waking him.
Finally free, she eased herself off the bed.
He moved and turned his face into the pillow and continued sleeping.
She allowed herself a silent sigh of relief before checking his forehead once more. Still feverish, but the frantic heat had eased. Relief washed through her.
With one last glance she slipped out of the bedroom and headed for the kitchen.
Her grandmother’s chicken soup recipe was legendary for its healing properties. Neighbors often requested it during illnesses. The secret was the blend of herbs and slow-simmered bone broth, plus a dash of her grandmother’s special ingredient that had only been whispered to her when she turned eighteen.
Now, surveying his kitchen properly for the first time, she discovered what she’d suspected: the refrigerator contained protein shakes, cold brew coffee, and bizarrely, an untouched container of blueberries. The pantry wasn’t much better: unopened spice jars, two onions with questionable motives, andcarrots that had seen better days. Definitely not the makings of a feast.
She pulled out her phone and placed a grocery delivery order.
After placing it, she realized someone needed to let the office know they wouldn’t be in tomorrow. With a sigh, she picked up her phone and called HR.
The voice-mail picked up. She cleared her throat, then did her best impression of someone not unraveling.
“Hi, this is Devney Sinclair. Mr. Wilder has come down with a bug and won’t be in tomorrow. I’ve canceled his meetings and rescheduled the board call. I’ll be out as well—I seem to have caught the same thing. Thanks.”
She hung up and winced.
The moment the call ended, the truth dawned on her: both of them calling out on a Monday? HR was going to light up like a gossip Christmas tree. She could already hear the whispers:
“They’re both out sick today?”
“She’s been bringing him coffee every morning…”
“There’s definitely something going on.”
She dropped her phone onto the counter and groaned.
This wasn’t a sick day—it was an RSVP to the rumor mill.
That was a problem for tomorrow, though. Right now, he needed care.
The grocery delivery arrived, and she set to work preparing the soup. The routine was meditative—dicing onions, slicing carrots and celery, searing the chicken before adding the broth. As she worked, the kitchen filled with the comforting aromas of herbs and simmering chicken.
Making this soup—her grandmother’s recipe, the one reserved for family. It was the action of a woman who cared deeply, who was pouring her newfound emotions into every carefully measured ingredient.
Her phone rang, and her expression lifted when she saw Lucy’s name on the screen. She answered with one hand while stirring the pot with the other.
“Well, well,” Lucy said, “if it isn’t Mrs. Wilder-to-be. How was the weekend of fake matrimonial bliss?”
“It was…complicated,” she said, keeping her voice low. “He jumped into the Atlantic after I fell overboard.”
Silence. Then—“I’m sorry, what?”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “But now he’s running a fever of 103, and I’m at his place.”
“Oh my God,” Lucy said. “You’re playing nurse. In his apartment.”
